Bombing through the woods minding my own business I had fallen into a trance.  With nothing to guide me but my lame ass head lamp, the sun had long since gone to bed but I was having way too much fun learning the subtle nuances of my new ride. I followed the beam banging through the turns, nothing but the sound of dry crunching earth with the occasional pop of rubber when I caught a rock just right.  Chika is a full blown touring machine.  Nothing in the world could have suprised me more than being body slammed by a deer, a first In my book. Laying in a crumpled heap of agony I was sure my foot was broken, I could feel blood running down my now cold skin as I got up and let out an absolute roar of delight.

They say that pain is only weakness leaving the body.  For some reason I get such a massive high from shit like this.  I tried to stand but I couldn’t, I hobbled over and picked up my fully loaded steed and inspected her for anything out of the ordanary, maybe I should have inspected myself.  I praised god in her infinite wisdom for creating the bicycle and rode into the night bleeding as I went, walking is so mundane. I made it home and pulled my two ice cold beers from my piss bucket and shoved my foot in. I swear there is such a huge part of me that wishes I would meet a nice girl and settle down so I wouldn’t have to go through this anymore; although that part of me is completely fucking retarded…

Sitting on the deck of my bayside cabin I pull the last of my porter. The sun has set but the western horizon is glowing pink and purple with dark clouds hanging on till the end. Bats whizz by feasting, it’s warm and I’ve fallen in love with land lubbering. I contemplate my useless life, I have so many stories to tell but no time to tell them, I’m failing as a writer. I can’t possibly fit even my minimalist load into my tiny gear bags. My Nikon sits on the floor under my bike hopelessly waiting like me to be included. Without a camera this journey is for not. I could buy a small used camera but my budget is as anemic as my body. I simply don’t care to write without images to show the light.

I’ve pushed my departure date up a few days just to screw myself out of the much needed time to work on Sookie, to work on my load and to earn a few extra bucks.  My feet are getting itchy and it’s time to move on, well in a few weeks that is. I’ll never be ready, my bike will never be ready, I’ll never have enough money. Maybe that’s why I always leave, because I know I’ll never be ready. To take everything away that doesn’t matter, this is to be complete, to be whole and free. To be honest at my age I don’t want to be free. Trapped in a endless limbo of debt and obligation feels so safe, to stay here in my warm house with hot food and a job that pays the bills.  There are people who will always say just go, they are ones who never have, who never will, but still they will offer to just go.

All I can do is hold on, scream at the top of my lungs and enjoy the ride. I worked hard and paid for my ticket, patiently waited in line and now it’s my turn. The roller coaster is dropping, my stomach is in my throat and adrenaline is surging through my veins. It’s only a matter of time till the roller coaster comes to a stop and it’s all over.  Hold on, no matter how scary it gets, hold on. Hold on, no matter how desperate it all may seem hold on. Hold on because now is the only thing you will ever have in this world, hold on. It’s only when you stop bleeding that your life comes to an end.

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
― Ernest Hemingway